


Oh, Baelish: A Romance of the Seven Kingdoms

by aheshke



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexuality, Comedy, Consensual Sex, Crack, Crack Relationships, F/F, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, OT3, Parody, Reckless Self-Indulgence, Sexual Humor, Snippets, don't take this fic seriously, eventual OT3, the little crackfic that could, this gets wackier over time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-09 17:05:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19480285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aheshke/pseuds/aheshke
Summary: Oberyn visits Littlefinger's brothel but enjoys a different kind of Petyr entirely ;)(Note: This is a humorous crackfic made up of multiple short, cracky snippets.)





	1. Chapter 1

It’s said a small coin delivered into the right hands can lead to all useful sorts of information about the underbelly of a city, but it takes a golden dragon and no small amount of charm before Oberyn and Ellaria are delivered to the best of Littlefinger’s brothels after their arrival in King’s Landing.

“Well, my love, will it suit?” Oberyn murmurs to his paramour as they gaze around the dimly lit interior.

Ellaria leans back in her cushioned chair and adjusts the sleeve of her saffron gown. “It’s certainly very… pink,” she says.

The richly dyed cloth covering almost every surface of the brothel must have cost Littlefinger dearly, and Oberyn already suspects he will leave the place a few gold dragons lighter, not that it truly matters to the whims of a Dornish Prince. (However, Doran might voice complaint upon their return, even if they manage to assuage him with further ties to the heart of Westerosi politics and further information on the rumors of dragons across the Narrow Sea.)

The richly dressed madam of the establishment meets them with a curvy blonde at her arm, obviously under-clothed in a rosy sort of shift designed to sweetly hug her curves. The madam introduces her to Ellaria, whose mouth curves up in obvious pleasure at what she sees.

Ellaria disappears with her new bedmate and then Oberyn is left alone for a few minutes more (with the madam apologizing for the delay).

When the madam returns, she returns not with a whore, but with a short man of slender build, handsome angular features, dark hair threaded with grey, and catlike grey-green eyes that meet Oberyn’s for a moment before Oberyn is distracted by the way a silver mockingbird pin on the man’s doublet catches a ray of sunlight breaking through the draped cloth over the windows.

This, then, must be Petyr Baelish, alias Littlefinger.

“You are not what I expected, Lord Baelish,” Oberyn says, nodding slightly after the other man goes through Westerosi formalities and extends a deep bow that shows off his trim waist and how richly designed his slashed cream-and-silver doublet is in its design.

A smile crosses Petyr’s thin lips, but not his eyes.

“And what were you expecting, Prince Oberyn?”

“When one imagines the Master of Coin for the Seven Kingdoms, one might expect a miserly, stoop-shouldered scholar, not a handsome man with refined taste. Not a man who seems the sort to be very keen on obtaining whatever he desires.”

With lords and noblemen, it’s always a game for Oberyn, seeing who will respond to his advances and who won’t, but he makes a gamble and very deliberately examines Petyr slowly from his polished boots to his neatly parted hair and licks his lips.

Petyr hardly reacts, but for an enticing flush creeping up his neck and cheeks. Oberyn had arrived at the brothel in hopes of bedding a bright-eyed youth, but he is seized with a sudden urge to touch his hands to Petyr’s skin and feel the warmth of the flush beneath his fingers.

“Perhaps we might discuss the nature of your stay in King’s Landing more privately, Ser,” Petyr says at last, examining Oberyn in his own way: brief, thoughtful, yet lingering. He turns on his heel and walks further into the brothel, indicating with a gesture that the prince should follow him.

 _Oh_ , Oberyn thinks, _This visit to King’s Landing might be interesting in more ways than I intended._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit to my friend and comedic fangirl-in-arms Marie for encouraging me to write this wacky nonsense. Snippets posted as I think of them/write them so I expect this to be ongoing with somewhat random updates.


	2. Chapter 2

Wine is brought to the two of them as they sit together on a long, wooden seat in a secluded room upstairs, empty but for an unadorned bed and a basin of water and various miscellanea on a tall chest.

It isn’t as good as Dornish wine, but is rich and full-bodied on Oberyn’s tongue, welcome after the dusty roads of the city.

“What brings you to King’s Landing?” Petyr asks, propping his hand holding his goblet on his knee, the fabric stretching tightly over his legs, Oberyn idly notes. 

_Elia_ , Oberyn thinks, but shoves the thought away, as it has no place in the bedroom of a brothel with a man who looks at him as though he is an intriguing mystery to unravel, thread by thread.

“I am to take Doran’s seat on the small council,” Oberyn says.

Petyr quirks a brow. “I expect we shall be seeing much more of each other.” His voice is light, but Oberyn doesn’t miss the note of flirtatiousness woven through his words.

“I expect we shall.”

“And yet,” Petyr says, leaning in slightly and assessing Oberyn with his strangely colored eyes once more, “that does not explain why a Prince of Dorne, known for his highly _particular_ tastes, would choose to be here before even announcing his arrival to my king.”

Oberyn fixes him with a hot stare, smiling slightly. “You might say mine paramour and I arrived hungry for more than simple Northern fare.”

Petyr swallows hard, the apple in his throat bobbing beneath his beard. “Is that so?”

Oberyn chuckles, the sound low in in his throat. He sets aside his goblet and, with the ease of years of practice, tilts Petyr’s chin up and pulls him into a passionate kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elevator of wackiness, going up.


	3. Chapter 3

Later, when Oberyn is slipping back into his discarded clothing, Petyr watches his movements from the bed with hooded eyes and says silkily, “So I take it you are named the Red Viper for more reasons than your choice of weaponry.”

Oberyn chokes back a strangled sound and manages to steady his voice before he admits, “You might say that, yes.”

Petyr remains curled naked in the bed, stretched out like a cat sunning itself, his torso pale enough that bluish-green veins run visible on his skin. When he notices Oberyn ogling him, he stretches languidly and smirks. 

“See something that pleases you?”

The Prince doesn’t respond, merely frowns a little and leans a little bit further over the bed and points at Petyr’s rather elegantly displayed backside.

“There appears to be a bird inked on your arse, Lord Baelish,” he informs him gravely.

“Well, I _am_ rather fond of mockingbirds,” says Petyr, angling himself to display the tattoo a little more prominently. “And you didn’t seem to mind it while we were coupling.”

Oberyn clears his throat. “I was, ah, rather preoccupied at the time.” He waves his hands a little in the direction of Petyr’s, well, _little rickard_.

The owner of said rickard raises both his eyebrows and murmurs sultrily, “And I should think you were! I’d make a poor brothel owner if I had no skill in the craft.” He sits up and beings to paw around for his shirt and doublet, so hastily discarded in their eagerness. “Normally I escort first-time visitors out myself, but given the, er, circumstances, I’ll allow Ros to do the honors.”

Ros turns out to be the madam from earlier, with rather fetching red hair and a mysterious smile upon seeing Oberyn’s exit from the room that seems to hint at knowing many years of accumulated noblemen’s secrets. She accepts the gold dragons he presents to her as payment and, when handed a silver stag as a tip, she provides him with a discreet route to the Red Keep that will keep their purses safe and private activities private.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All hail Lord Tramp Stamp.


	4. Chapter 4

At the small council meetings, Oberyn fulfills his role as advisor to the king in place of Doran, though of course, he’s truly more of an advisor to Tywin Lannister, alias “Others-Cursed Lord of the Boar Nob Who Murdered Elia and Who Does Not Under Any Circumstances Desire a Dornishman’s Advice”.

He sometimes catches Petyr’s eyes during long meetings at the small council table, but here, Petyr remains steadfastly Master of Coin and Associated Piles of Parchment.

Nothing they say to each other at the Red Keep hints at their encounter in Petyr’s brothel, which is perhaps for the best. Oberyn shares a bed with Ellaria and they enjoy each other’s bodies as they always have, the comforting familiarity tumbling each other for many years and making little Sand Snakes of their own. If Ellaria is surprised when Oberyn mentions taking Petyr to bed, she doesn’t mention it to him, merely sighing happily as she runs her fingers through his curls.

A week, and then another passes before there is any hint at that day in Petyr’s brothel and, as the Crone would will it, fate coincides the moment when Oberyn and Ellaria are tucked between the Tyrell’s entourage and white cloaks into the city, ostensibly to give Margaery Tyrell a tour, especially of the market and jewelry districts. It is a warm day in late summer and Oberyn and Ellaria take advantage to dress in the looser fashions of their home, even though it draws stares from the smallfolk and King Joffrey’s retinue.

Petyr isn’t part of the entourage at first, but then joins them partway through their journey, looking unfazed by the heat despite wearing a dark grey doublet with a black mockingbird embroidered on the breast. (Oberyn subtly nudges Ellaria and indicates the embroidery when he sees it, as if to say, “I wasn’t jesting about the birds.”)

Petyr is still behaving as Lord Baelish as they walk, making small talk about Dorne and the Riverlands with spare references to the small council, until Oberyn notices Petyr’s breathing become heavier and the way his face is entirely flushed red, tell-tale signs to any Dornishman of someone who has been in the sun far too long.

He interrupts whatever train of small talk Petyr is making about citrus imports and asks, “Aren’t you warm?”

When Petyr looks at him with confusion, Oberyn gestures to his clothing, which looks as suffocating as Oberyn’s flowing robes are breathable.

“I’m quite comfortable, Ser,” Petyr says, sweat beading on his forehead.

“You look unwell, Lord Baelish,” Ellaria insists, playing the part of a concerned woman. “Perhaps if you were to loosen or remove some of those layers…?”

Petyr raises his eyebrows. “Mistress Sand, surely you’re not suggesting I alter myself like a Dornishman?”

The jest rolls off of Oberyn’s tongue before he remembers himself. “Well, you know what they say about a Dornishman’s feet?”

The question apparently catches Petyr off-guard, because he stumbles. “What do they say?” he asks uncertainly.

“We have exceptionally comfortable sandals,” Oberyn finishes with a wink.

At this, Petyr lets out a bark of laughter that he swiftly changes into a cough when others in the retinue turn to look at them. “You’re an exceptional man, Prince Oberyn.” His eyes flick to Ellaria, lingering on her hair and the charm she wears at her neck, bared by Dornish clothing, to honor the love goddess of Lysene. “As is Mistress Sand. I think we might deem to continue our discussion later. Silk Street, on Sixth Day?”

He doesn’t wait for them to respond, but simply bows and disappears somewhere in the jostling of minor nobility, servants, and white cloaks.

“I think our little Mockingbird has sung a mating call,” Ellaria whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next snippet may not be up for a bit.


	5. Chapter 5

On Silk Street on Sixth Day, Ros refuses the up-front payment they offer her with yet another mysterious smile and escorts them to a room on the third floor, which is warm with summer heat even with cloth covering the cracks of every shuttered window in the room. On the other hand, the room is spacious, ornamented, and draped with green instead of pink, and a desk sits opposite the bed. Silver mockingbird décor flutters everywhere from the patterned blanket to the engraving on the lone chair at the desk. It is obviously the personal quarters of Lord Baelish when he stays at the brothel.

The aforementioned man strolls in not long after they make themselves comfortable with Ellaria sitting in the desk chair and Oberyn comfortably seated on top of the desk in the lone spot free of loose parchment and books.

“Prince, Mistress, I see you’ve made yourselves comfortable in the exact place where it is most uncomfortable to fuck,” Petyr says with no small amount of bluntness, not looking at them as he begins to fiddle with the lacings on the sleeve of the shirt beneath his tunic (black today with the silver mockingbird pin, Oberyn notes).

Ellaria glances at the desk, then at Oberyn, and mutters, “I can in fact recall at least three places that _were_ more uncomfortable than a desk, especially while Dorea was conceived—”

But they relocate near the bed anyway.

“Ah, wonderful,” Petyr says, his courtly smile back on his face. “You two are indeed the most splendid and intriguing guests in all of King’s Landing with perhaps the exception of the Lady Olenna Tyrell, who evidently does not see the merit of men and women of the night to keep her company. And you have been away from my business for far too long, so I thought to myself, why not make it my personal business to see that you return?”

_He is a most peculiar man_ , Oberyn thinks, meeting his eyes before he says, “Petyr, why invite us to your personal quarters? You are Master of Coin. Surely a comely whore would suffice for our needs in a brothel?”

Petyr places a hand on both of their arms and repeats, with a peculiar expression on his face, “I make it my personal business. And right now, that business entails charming you to take your clothes off.”

Ellaria stops him from moving in closer by placing a hand on his chest. “Wait,” she says, “We have rules.”

“Rules?”

“Well, when a man and his paramour love each other very much and then mutually decide to bed another together, there are preferred guidelines to follow,” Oberyn says with a sigh.

"For one," says Ellaria, trailing a finger up Petyr's chest to his neck. "You do nothing you don't agree to do. One word, and we will leave your bed."

"Two," Oberyn adds, "we don't wear Myrish lace to bed. **_Ever._** Not as stockings and certainly not as bindings. Not after the last time."

Petyr startles at that. "What happened the last time?"

"The blisters didn't heal for _weeks_ ," Ellaria says vehemently, but doesn't explain.

Petyr doesn't press for details (much to Oberyn's relief), and steps in further before he leans in to hungrily kiss Ellaria, then Oberyn, before gently shoving their chests back, towards the bed.

After that, they are rather preoccupied with having a merry time with each other's bodies and making, as it were, the beast with three backs instead of two.

Oberyn is idly tracing circles on Ellaria's back when Petyr, pinned neatly between someone's elbow and leg, falls back in the sheets, breathing hard.

"I have no inkling of how either of you entertain more than one bedmate as often as you do. There are entirely too many limbs!"

Oberyn shrugs. "I've never minded having more."

"Ah, the mystery behind why a spearman and a _spearman_ —if you take my meaning—has so many Sand Snakes is revealed!"

"You were right about the tattoo," Ellaria says, humming contentedly into Oberyn's neck.

"I'd hardly jest about such a thing," says Oberyn, said tattoo wonderfully prominent in their field of vision.

Petyr shifts yet again so he can flash a smirk, smug as a snake who’s found the warmest patch of Dornish sun. “Staring at my arse again, are you? Fancy another round?”

Oberyn exchanges a look with Ellaria, full of amusement and assent. “It would be our pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this snippet there's probably gonna be more time skips and jumping around etc with the wackiness depending on how I write things bc tbh I have no idea where I'm going with this except to get it out of my head pls (Mother have mercy on my terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad vivid imagination).


	6. Chapter 6

"I daresay, that scheming Littlefinger has rather lingered around Prince Oberyn and his paramour lately," Olenna Tyrell mentions at teatime with her grandchildren, Sansa Stark, and her chaperone Septa Mordane. "One might wonder if he's aiming to sink his talons into higher prospects than Lannister gold."   
  
Sansa makes a face into her tea, which gives Olenna pause.  
  
"Something the matter, Sansa dear?"  
  
The girl is rather reserved after a year of being a glorified Lannister hostage but her face is regrettably as open as her father's. She'll learn to hide her emotions like true southern nobility if Olenna has any say in the matter.   
  
"Please don't tell the queen but, the other day, as I was returning to my rooms through a rarely-used hallway, I caught sight of the three of them: the Prince, Lord Baelish, Mistress Ellaria all kissing in a manner that's most improper for the unwedded. Tell me, is copious involvement of tongue normal for Southron lords?" Sansa looks pale as she speaks and Margaery simply looks amused when Olenna catches her eye. Olenna is reminded yet again that Sansa is still yet a child and has yet to lose a girl's fancy of chivalrous knights and courtly love.  
  
Someone snorts softly. Much to everyone's surprise, it's the Septa Mahonia Mordane, hand clapped over her mouth and eyes crinkled with mirth.  
  
Olenna knows her childhood friend better than perhaps anyone else at the tea table, especially when her friend is holding back something she finds humorous.   
  
"Anything you'd like to share, Mahonia?"   
  
Septa Mordane quickly composes herself with a whispered apology and then confesses, "It's just that, well, this is hardly shocking. Petyr never was one to be found in secluded corners with strictly maidens or boys when I was Septa to Lady Catelyn and Lady Lysa. Why, there was one time I found him with Lord Edmure—"  
  
Sansa chokes on her tea and wheezes as she frantically dabs at her dress with a handkerchief, " _What_ of Uncle Edmure?"   
  
"Oh, nothing for you to worry about."  
  
Later, when Sansa's maid Shae escorts her to change her dress, Olenna comments to Septa Mordane, "I suppose some young lords and ladies will always be caught in the throes of passion by accidental eyes. Such is the way of providing a steady stream of court gossip."  
  
Septa Mordane keeps her eyes lowered on her teacup, but says quietly, "Remember when we were like that?"  
  
"Hardly! As if I'd be caught anywhere in the Red Keep or near that pink and perfumed monstrosity Littlefinger calls a brothel. In _my_ day, we discreetly fondled each other after our lessons in the Sept's school, like proper ladies."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last bit of OhBaelish inspo I have atm but many thanks for reading this silly fic so far! If I get any more ideas, I'll be sure to write them down.


End file.
